The Shadows That Connect Us
by twistedthicket1
Summary: Johnlock, parentlock When sherlock and john decided to have kids nearly ten years after S's return, they didn't expect life to become so hectic. Worse yet is when thier daughter Janey decides she wants to be just like her parents, and unlocks a secret Sherlock's been hiding for years... finding their daughter kidnapped, sherlock must rescue her before it's too late...
1. Preface

**_Hi everyone! So I used to have an old account when I was younger, but due to various reasons, I can no longer access it. As a result for a long time I didn't go on this site, and didn't think of it until much later. Now this is a sherlock Johnlock fanfiction, but it's actually more about their daughter. It's not going to be really all that smutty or particularly sexual so if that's what you were after... well you might be disappointed. Sorry. DON'T EAT MEH D: . So with a one and a two, here we go! Back to writing like I used to! Comment and review if you want me to continue updating frequently, and don't hesitate to give me feedback!_**

**Preface**

Shadows.

Light and dark, mimicking the touch and sound of real life. Fake yet almost alive in his hands, he flips the machine that makes the shadows, causing them to ripple along the walls and change. In he depth of the darkness his smile is infectious and maddening, like the grin of a chesire cat as it disappears and reappears. Covered and uncovered in light it moves with him, the man in the suit who should not be there. Blinking, his eyes' shine like cats pupils as one gloved hand flips the magnifying machine over and over head over feet.

Dusky light.

So easily shattered.

So easy to break apart the light.

Yet it would always regroup.

This was his problem.

The pesky light would always regroup.

Multiply...

Multiply...

Someone enters his hotel room in the dark, their uncertain blue eyes flicking over the scene with fear. The woman knows not what true fear is, the man thinks. He thinks it would do her good to learn _true _fear of something.

Fear of him if no one else.

"Sir...?" Her voice sounds faintly, and her hands reach to pick nervously at the coif of blonde that is her hair. Red velvet gloves. Like his favourite flavour of cupcake.

Like blood.

Like roses.

Like... like the colour of _that _man's brains as he fell to his death.

Though... not _really._

See it was all a game.

Pretend.

Make-believe.

Like the ever-present illusion of light when there is only, truly, darkness.

The man turns and steps into the light, and his brown eyes shine maniacally as he touches the scar on his forehead.

"Ah miss Baker, Good morning! I trust you got the information all right? Care for a danish?" He holds up a brightly coloured bowl full of pastries, and when she refuses, takes one for himself happily.

The woman bites one thumb-nail, looking down and away in a mix of indecision and panic. She doesn't meet his eyes as she steps forward with a brown envelope, red heels clicking on the linoleum.

"Yes sir... but..."

Taking a bite from the pastry, the icing dribbles a little down the man's chin as he eats. The way he chews is with childlike abandon, and even in a suit he cares not about mussing up his tie.

"But.. what?" His whisper is through a mouthful of food.

The woman hands him the envelope, but her fingers linger on it even as he scoops it up in his hands.

"I... I don't know about this... They seemed like such a nice couple... and..."

For a moment, the man's grin disappears. He looks at her long and coldly, her voice fading away as her eyes meet his. Miss Baker presses a gloved finger to her mouth as she gazes deep into those eyes, afraid of the coldness that fills them. She can't see the end of them, they seem to go on forever.

Her voice trails off.

"Now, now. I assure you, you're doing the right thing." The man says, after a moment of blinking almost sleepily his grin returns at full tilt. He takes her hand and shakes it, and it's like Miss Baker imagined the look he had given her as he wraps and arm about her shoulders.

"You will be rewarded in full, and _I _will have what I want..."

The woman's eyes mist over at the thought of reward, and a timid smile crosses her red lips.

"I suppose... Though I never caught your name...? How shall I contact you if something goes wrong?"

The man pauses, steering her towards the door as the envelope is tucked under his arm.

His smile becomes wider as he gives her a light push, spilling danish crumbs on the floor.

"I suppose it can't hurt..."

His eyes alight with the darkness again as he finishes his pastry.

"Moriarty."

Miss Baker looks at him, her eyebrows drawn together.

She doesn't see the shadow at the door, lifting a pistol so it lies level with her head.

"Moriar-"

_BANG._

His smile turns into a cold, callous laugh. Crouching, the man clucks in mock-shame.

"Oh dear, you seemed to have stained my new shoes too."

Red. Red like roses.

And red like blood.


	2. Chapter One Pillar Of Salt

_**So this is the start of the first chapter. It's a longer one, but I think it shows the fluffier side to this story :) Again, reviews and comments and critiques are welcomed and enjoyed! **_

**Chapter One~ A Pillar Of Salt**

She wraps the soft woollen scarf about her neck happily, pulling the worn knitted edges over her fingers and through the loop so it made a perfect knot at the center of her collarbone. Against her pale skin the blue is bright like a robin's egg, illuminating her eyes that never seemed to stay exactly one colour. They are a deep, waiting, thinking blue-green right now as she brushes her dark hair away from her face, letting it fall down her childlike shoulders in gently curled waves. She had mentally calculated it in her head, and it was all perfect. Neither her Dad nor her Papa would be home four at least another half hour, because of the rain and allotting for any mishaps in traffic and the pattern of the light changes. Nobody could scold her as she twirls a little to admire her reflection in the mirror, the scarf too long for her and dangling almost at her ankles. Of course, most of the clothes she's wearing aren't exactly her size. The trenchcoat she's borrowed makes her seem dwarf-ish and strange, and the sleeves nearly fall all the way to her hips. She rolls one up to deal with the stubborn lock of hair that always sticks up from the rest of it, and ties the belt of the coat once for good measure.

In _her _opinion, she looks rather dapper.

Then again, opinions were relative as Dad would say.

It was quite possible she supposed she was merely imagining herself, skewing her own perception.

She couldn't trust it.

Frowning, she calls for her brother, her voice drifting downstairs to the little fair-haired child eating oatmeal with strawberries in the living room.

"Michael! Come see the outfit I made!"

Michael Holmes, five and a half years old and at time despairingly used as his sister's servant walks up the stairs with a sort of lowly trudge, rocket footie pajamas and hair slept in and ruffled. He rubs one soft brown eye grumpily, annoyed that yet again he was being paged by his sister who was at once clever as she was brutally annoying. His eyes widen at the mess he walks into as he approaches their parent's bedroom, clothes strewn helter-skelter all about the floor and the once-pristine bed. He grips his elbows and bites his chubby lip worriedly at the small hurricane his sister has created, and one thing crosses the panicked young boy's mind.

_Papa is going to have a fit._

In the center of it all, preening like a tiny detective princess, Janey Holmes clasped her hands together and waited for some kind of reaction.

After a moment... her brother slowly spoke.

"You look... Like someone stuck you in the dryer too long and you shrunk..."

The girl didn't react, but her ears turned a little redder as she twirled back around to inspect herself in the mirror. Michael smiled a little, wandering about and slowly picking up the clothes on the floor. He scooped up a striped shirt of Papa's, a black vest of Dad's, and was just bending down to reach for a pair of mismatched socks when Janey spoke again, this time more of a murmur.

"Darn... I was _sure _I had it this time..."

She twirled around again, pacing back and forth like a kitten with too much energy. Her socks made slight padding sounds that made Michael think of the footprints of faeries. He sucked his thumb absently, a habit he had been unable to quite break yet. Finally, when his curiosity could wait no longer, he dared to ask.

"Had what?"

Her blue eyes flash icily as she stops, turning on him and gripping his round shoulders.

"An _image _Michael. Don't you see?Even _you _must understand that I need an _image?_"

Janey looks for any glimmer of comprehension in her brother's eyes, but upon seeing none scowls.

"Do you even understand who we are the children of? Have you done no _research _at all?!"

She tugs at her hair, as if she can will it into submission. Michael senses the delicate secrets Janey is keeping from him, and the thought that Dad and Papa were keeping information from him as well was almost too much to bear. His annoyance rises as his sister begins to mumble at top speed, touching plans and ideas in the air that were only in her mind, seeing steps ahead that he can't hope to follow. It infuriates him, and his face turned light pink from being in the dark.

"What do you mean? Janey, what are you talking about?! They wouldn't keep secrets from us! Tell me!"

He reaches out and pulls at her oversized sleeve, causing her to snap out of her daze and focus on him. Her voice is hushed, and she reaches out and grips her little brother's hand.

"I'm talking about Papa and Dad's _job. _How one day... I would like to be like them...How I can stop criminals... even ones as strong as..." She swallows, and looks away. Michael blinks as for the first time he sees his sister's confidence deflate for just a second. A shiver crawls over her and she doesn't look quite so tall.

Her hair hides her eyes that have turned soft green as she stares into the distance, lost with some unknown fear. Her little brother, hand still warm from her touch looks in confusion and wonders if for all her cleverness if Janey wasn't just a little bit mad.

The silence fills their sound.

The distinct sound of the key turning in the lock make both of them jump in surprise.

Janey dives for under the bed, pulling Michael with her as both of them listen to their parents stomping off the rain from outside. Janey hears Papa's voice filtering through the stairway. He sounds frustrated as usual with Dad.

"Sherlock I'm telling you that you _can't _just walk into peoples homes like that, one of these days someone is going to call the _police-_"

Dad snorts in derision, the sound of him opening the closet to put his coat away loud and creaky.

"Don't be ridiculous John we _are _the police, and besides, I don't seem to recall _you_ protesting to loudly when I broke the window with a rock to get in."

"Because _you _started _kissing _me in public to distract me from what you were _doing!_"

Michael giggles a little at Papa's flustered and embarrassed tone, and Janey smiles even while covering his mouth. Her heart is pounding though as she clutches the scarf about her neck.

"Don't act like you didn't enjoy it."

Sherlock mutters, to which John coughs in irritation. The silence that stretches indicates to the children that their parents are being... _affectionate _with each other, which makes Janey roll her eyes and Michael blush.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, John mumbles huskily

"We should find the kids..."

Sherlock claps his hands together and the two of them walk up the stairs hand in hand, John noticing the abandoned oatmeal in the kitchen and the shuffling from upstairs prepares himself for the worst.

His husband notices far more than he does.

It feels strange even now calling him that in John's mind. Sherlock doesn't miss the slight scratch on the banister from Michael fingernails-he liked to chip the wood.

Or how the bathroom light had been left flickering and abandoned, as if someone had been brushing their teeth only for show until they had left that morning.

His eyes narrow and his nose crinkles in thought like it usually does, but both of them stop in utter shock at the state of their bedroom. John's mouth falls open and his face turns greyer than his sweater, and even Sherlock raises an eyebrow in silent amusement.

Clothes lie everywhere, thrown haphazardly across the floor and bed and left discarded over the mirrors. The bed's cover is rumpled and the pillows have been stacked into a likeness of a snowman, complete with a hat and tie. There's calculations written with chalk on the hardwood, and Janey's hair ribbons have been abandoned off in the corner. All in all, it looks like a mess.

Or, John notices, this Sherlock's office.

For a moment neither man speaks, just considers things for a moment. Then Sherlock crouches at the equation, pale eyes flicking towards the bed.

"You got it wrong Janey. _Carry _the number, and the reciprocal will follow."

"Is that all you've got to say?!" John splutters, wondering if he's angry or going to start laughing.

"How about how she's completely torn apart my favourite shirt? Or how she's written on the walls!?"

The dark haired girl rises as gracefully as she can from her hiding spot, smoothing down the scarf calmly in front of her.

"Of course I had to use your shirt. It was the only material thin enough to cut easily into strips so I could practice first aid on Timothy."

She promptly reached into the oversized coat that was not hers, revealing her bear who now looked more like a mummy than a fuzzy sleep toy.

"Well it's not like I haven't ripped your clothes before..." Sherlock's mumble causes John's ears to turn bright red, and he all but drags Michael from his hiding place with a sort of coughing attack in his chest. His grey-white hair is a pale reminder of his son's golden curls, and Michael clings to his Papa the way a baby sloth might- tightly and around his neck. The similarity between the two is hard to miss as they straighten together and look at the mess, both with equal amounts of disgust and shock. Michael starts to cry, worrying about being punished for something he didn't do.

For a moment nobody speaks as everyone takes into account their position, Janey's proud smile, and Sherlock's twitching eyebrow. Then, the dark haired man sighs, flinging back his head and closing his eyes in consternation.

"I just realized I left some evidence under the bed."

That's when Michael realizes that the red on his pajamas isn't part of the pattern, and is actually from a ziplock baggy that he had sat on in his rush to hide.

His resounding wail does not put Janey's position in a good light as she distinctly hears her Papa mutter to Dad

"_One _of you was hard enough to handle..."

Sherlock's answering grin was identical to Janey's in almost every way.


	3. Pillar of Salt Cont

_**So I'd really, really appreciate some reviews if anyone is reading or following my story. I just want to know if people are actually reading... :( PLEASE! Also, next chapter is where the action begins, and I shall try to have it out soon! Please tell me what you think, and don't be afraid to give critism.**_

* * *

"I _told _you I never _meant _to emotionally scar Michael. I just wanted him to tell me if the scarf suited me." Janey grumbles while sitting in time out in front of her Dad, stocking feet curled up so her knees brushed the edge of her chin and she could grip her toes. Her chin was set in a stubborn line of defiance as her pale blue eyes met his and neither refused to look away.

"Besides, _you _were the one who left evidence under the bed."

Sherlock stared at his daughter and didn't respond, rubbing at his face tiredly before setting his hands under his chin in thought. Janey had become difficult lately to handle. His fingers drummed together at the tips as he thought of how lately her intelligence had seemed to jump-start, to become a raging fire as she craved knowledge and understanding of the world around her. With that came the beginning of an edge to his child he didn't like, and yet could relate to. Something John would never understand despite his years of being by the side of the man who had perfected that edge. The problem was that with that edge underlying it was still the perspective of a child.

Not that John hadn't commented that Sherlock was really no better at times.

Still, he understood the kind of manic energy that seemed to consume her at moments, filling her with a desire to _be _something. To _help._

Even Michael had that desire, though he was milder in his ways. Though he also had the potential to be like Janey.

Really, Sherlock wasn't so sure all the time if having kids with both his DNA and John's had been the best idea.

The result was his intelligence, John's obsessiveness, and a streak of stubborn a mile wide.

He noticed the way she bit at a lock of her hair when she was fidgeting, how she rocked on her heels. How her eyes were far larger and wiser than a child's should be.

A mix of old and new.

She was also analyzing him, taking in the tired circles around his features, the fidgeting of his own hands, and the way he actively bit his lip, as if wanting desperately a cigarette.

This was supposed to be a punishment, but slowly, it turned into a staring match.

Janey wondered how someone's eyes could be so _deep _that she couldn't see through them.

Strangely enough, Sherlock had once thought the same thing about another person, long ago. Except that person would not have gently tucked a child's lock of hair away from her face and murmured

"No dinner tonight. Straight to bed. However, John _tends _to leave snacks out in the night."

Her smile is impish as she knows that despite his coolness, despite his calm, she has her Dad totally and utterly under her control. She wraps her arms around his neck, dark hair flying back as she kisses his ear softly. After a moment of hesitation, her father responds to the hug with one of his own. His arms are warm, safe. A kind of protection Janey takes comfort in when she knows that her parents together can do anything.

"I just... wanted to be like you and Papa." Her whisper made Sherlock smile softly.

"I know... and one day, I'll give you that scarf... when you're older... and less annoying... not that I can really say anything... Until then..." He pushes her playfully up towards the stairs "_Try _not to drive John or your brother insane."

Her eyes are wicked as they dance in the dim light of the kitchen.

"I won't make any promises."

Michael, on the other hand, was not so happy with Janey's "punishment".

He pulls at his school uniform sulkily, first day of preschool seeming to have lost most of it's splendour with the news that Papa has just given him.

"You mean Janey's not going to school today because she's _grounded_?"

His dark brown eyes stared pointedly at Papa's face, who was busily avoiding his five year old son's glare as he knelt to button up the collar of his shirt. John tugged it firmly, teeth clenched as he remembered the quiet argument he and Sherlock had had a few hours before. He had used similar tones of disbelief when Sherlock proposed this punishment, tweaking the strings to his violin as he stared out the window. John had been sitting on the couch, typing away on his laptop about his latest adventures in raising children while balancing solving a murder case, when his husband suddenly stopped playing and spoke.

"That's it. I've got it."

His green eyes flashed with speckles of blue as he turned, pacing a worn path along the floor.

John looked up from his laptop, eyebrows arching.

"Got what?"

He watched the tall man as he passed through shadow and light, wondering not for the first time if Sherlock was talking about the case they were working on or their kids. Sometimes, he managed to confuse and mix the two together. Putting his laptop down and preparing to wring the answer out of him, John leaned forward.

"About the Baker Case?"

"Of course not." Sherlock snorts, as if the suggestion that he might be focusing on a simple small-town murder was an idea that was offensive to him- even comical.

"Already solved that more or less a few hours ago. She was smuggling something to an anonymous corporation and had out-lived her usefulness. Probably a drug company, judging from the fact that her veins showed signs of heroin use. No John..."

He freezes, turning and crouching in front of his husband.

"Janey needs a _mind-palace_."

John looked at him skeptically, tone blank.

"A... _mind _palace... You mean that thing you do where you blink a lot and close your eyes and pretend you're a super computer? You want our daughter to be like a machine-"

"No. I want her to be able to _stop _thinking when she wants to. To not become a machine like I did when I was younger." His voice lowers, as does his eyebrows as they dip into a concentrated expression.

"When you first met me, I was cold. Stubborn. Callous."

"_Was?_" He splutters, laughing. Sherlock ignores the jibe and continues, remembering his childhood.

"It was because I was used to people _not thinking. _Not observing. Not understanding the things I saw and knew. My mind palace however allowed me to see that you were useful. That you could keep me _grounded._" John's throat closed when he saw the tiny flicker of emotion behind Sherlock's façade. It was a look of gratitude that made him want to say something. Yet he let him continue.

"Janey doesn't know how to find someone to ground her, because her thoughts are all over the place. She has no way to organize her mind, and it's driving her to search for a way." He gestured to his scarf, which he had reclaimed.

"She sees that I'm grounded, despite being brilliant. She sees your kindness, even though you don't understand her calculations or her tangents and argue with me all the time about my methods. _Don't you see John-_"

He paused, taking his hand and blinking. John finished his sentence for him, because now, impossibly, he saw.

"She's mimicking us. Trying to find out what makes us the way we are."

Sherlock nods, and a rare smile crosses his lips.

Which is why she needs to stay home from school. Alone. So she can realize she can silence her thoughts on her own."

At the time, it had seemed like sound logic. Now though John sees too many flaws in the plan. Janey was chaotic at worse, disorganized at best. She frequently had been known to terrorize Mrs. Hudson when she babysat with her complete disregard for her own personal safety, and had made Sherlock not once but twice break out into a flat run to catch her as she slipped from balancing atop the balcony. (later on she explained patiently she was only trying to get a closerlook at the nest of a neighbouring blue jay) It was like Janey had no idea that whatever she touched, she set aflame.

Suddenly filled with gratitude he was the father of at least one sane child, he hugged Michael a little harder about the shoulders.

"Don't worry about your sister. She just needs to...learn how to relax."

Michael frowned, but he didn't argue. Instead he pulled on John's sleeve and lowered his gaze, his question sulky.

"Does Dad love Janey more than me? Is that why she get to stay home?"

Michael felt Papa scoop him up, hugging him so he could smell his aftershave and worry on his vest. John rocked his son gently, pressing his cheek on his head.

"Of course not. Dad loves you a lot. Janey just needs to be looked after more, what bright boy you are!"

That made Michael grin, relaxing into his embrace. The two separated but remained hand in hand, when the little boy is struck with a thought.

"Dad needs to be looked after more than you, doesn't he?"

John couldn't help but smile.

"Most days... yes..."

The two laugh and step outside, feeling the warm sun of a spring morning shining on their faces. Michael touched everything he could along the way, flowers and grass and pavement keeping ahold of his interest when he isn't focused solely on his Papa. Watching him, John sees bits of Sherlock surfacing in those brown eyes. The way he silently categorizes everything, pulling it apart and putting it back together like the world is a puzzle. Except when he trips, and begins to cry because of a scrape on his knee. Relutantly, John must admit that's more like him.

Then a sudden question fills John's mind, and he looks down at his son who has stopped bawling by now and was rubbing his nose, soldiering on despite his cut. In surprise he blurts out something he never thought to ask before

"Do _you_ have a mind-palace?"

Michael looks vaguely confused, his pale eyebrows lowering over his deep eyes.

"Not a mind-palace... Not a palace..."

"I mean-" John pauses, trying to find the right words.

"A place of comfort... where everything you know is stored... organized... Where you can stop thinking..."

He is unsure if he is being to complicated and metaphorical for his son, but Michael thinks on it hard.

Then he smiles, understanding.

"Oh! You mean my garden!"

And John, wondering just how much Michael hid behind his gentleness listened to his son launch on a tangent about an imaginary garden where the iron fences were so tall and so covered with vines even Janey couldn't enter, where everything was clean and he could eat cherry tarts and play violin almost as well as Dad. Where nobody hurt, and nobody was a servant. It sounded like a dream from far away...


	4. Pillar of Salt part 3

_**So here is where things begin to pick up! tell me what you think, and please send reviews! seriously, or I may not continue :( **_

After everyone has left, Janey lies in bed alone with a sigh. The light through her half-parted curtains shines in her eyes, blinding her and making it so she has to blink repeatedly. It's irritating.

Annoying.

_Boring._

She rolls onto her side, dark hair splaying out behind her with static clinging to every strand.

Stupid Papa.

Stupid for being angry.

Stupid Dad.

Stupid for not telling her why she was here, instead of at school.

Not like school was interesting.

She had only wanted...

Her thoughts trail off as she blinks, considering.

What _had _she wanted?

It's startling for her to realize that she's not entirely sure.

She wanted an image. At least, she thought she did.

Something to hold onto and call her own. Yet, she also wanted everything else. Not just one thing. She wanted a name that meant the expanse of information that whirled in her mind, that accurately described her erratic behaviour.

The only word she could think up of was _insanity._

It was too bad the Holmes name was already claimed by her Dad.

Though Papa was unaware that Janey knew about their infamy, Sherlock had been known to secretly encourage her digging into her family history.

Whenever Papa was away, Dad would conveniently leave about old cases that they had already solved, and Janey had more than once spent long hours in her favourite rocker by the fire pouring excitedly over perilous missions and puzzles.

It was like a huge maze-work of murders and thievery that she worked at viciously to solve before she read to the end. So far she had read twenty all told, and solved thirteen before her Papa had realized what Dad had seen from the start.

There were a few though that she marvelled at the name Sherlock, and imagined the chill it sent down all evil's spine.

She remembered in particular one case, that her Papa somewhat creatively called

_The Hound Of The Baskervilles._

How it had driven her to distraction! Her homework had gotten done, but for the first time she hadn't handed it in on time because she had been so absorbed in solving it.

The dingy blankets of her bed had stayed looking slept-in for a week because she had spent all of her free time refusing to read any further and thinking until she solved it.

A smile crosses her face.

Dad had been working on a particularly interesting and difficult case then. He had come and lied down right beside her, thinking about his own puzzle.

Of course, he was the first to mutter "Aha!"

The frown returns to her face, this time even more darkly. She _had _to become better at this! At not letting her thoughts wander...

Sitting up suddenly, she crosses the floor of her bedroom. The walls are a light dusky sort of blue, and there was an odd mix of childlike picture books as well as texts and tomes that most grown men wouldn't read. She reaches for one of the heavier ones, opening it to reveal several pages of loopy script. It had been a gift her uncle Mycroft had given her.

A complete collection of all the animals on the Earth. Descriptions fill her mind as she cracks the spine open, images of multicoloured feathers and deeply blinking slitted eyes.

It only lasts for so long though and then she's bored again, throwing the book across the room in frustration and flopping sideways on the bed. No good.

A bit not good.

_Damn._

What would her Dad do in a time like this?

She thought for a moment, then got up and bounded downstairs. The living room was still half-dismantled from the argument her Dad and Papa had a while ago, it lies abandoned with scattered blankets and half-eaten toast.

Lonely.

She goes to the solitary black piano in the corner, running her fingers lovingly over the polished black cover that shielded the keys. While she was actually hopeless at the violin and even Michael could sing better than her, there was one musical thing that Janey could do well.

Sitting herself on the bench, she exposes the ivory-white keys and rests her hands gently for a moment against middle C. Then, taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and begins to play.

It comes to her haltingly at first, but then the notes begin to flow effortlessly together, trembling in the air like living wings beating downwards to push off into the sky. Her fingers dance over the keys and for once Janey feels at peace with herself as she presses down on the pedals. There's a certain rhythm, a certain sound that when she gets it just right all of her thoughts stop. It's relieving, so relieving she wants to cry.

She doesn't though, because it's not her.

All too soon though, the song must come to an end. The drifting notes fizzle and fade into nothing, and the thoughts creep back again. It was like that story in the Bible, the one she had read the day she decided she didn't believe in God.

When she doubted her thoughts, she became a pillar of salt. Easily breakable.

Easily destroyed.

Then something came to her.

Music.

A music room.

Turning to the chair rattles with her movements, she sits herself down in the tight corner between the piano and the couch and closes her eyes, concentrating.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Think.

Think of the music.

Her fingers tap the polished wood floor rhythmically, sounding out the keys in her head. Organize it, keep it clean sounding.

Her thoughts soon began to follow suit.

That's it, slower, calmer.

Things begin to straighten themselves, her music room lulling everything into a sense of peace.

There was no more hectic thoughts.

No more craving to know things.

No tiny little voice of rage that told her she would never be good enough.

And that's really what it's been all about all along.

The feeling of utter inadequacy she felt whenever her thoughts slowed down.

The truth is, Janey Holmes is worried.

Worried that her parents find her too stressful.

Worried that one day, she will break like a fragile doll.

Worry and worry upon worry.

This was why her Dad had made her stay home.

So she could hear the silence of the house, and feel her solitude and realize.

She had no reason to be afraid.

She never has.

Because staring right in front of her is the obvious, which oddly enough she had missed when she was so focused on the details.

Her family loved her.

Yet love had never before come to play in her mind when she imagined irrational scenarios. Boarding school.

Adoption.

Michael in these scenarios always waved as she was dragged away.

Now she realized he was more likely to cry.

She had only thought Dad might cry.

In truth, her relationship with her Papa was not often a smooth one.

They fought a lot, and were responsible for more arguing than Sherlock and John themselves. Janey would do something, and Papa would treat her like a child.

It was infuriating.

Michael didn't mind it. He liked to be treated his age.

However it just made Janey itch.

Now she knows as she opens her eyes that Papa never intended to treat her like a prisoner of war or like an infant.

He had seen Dad reach the end of his rope before when they weren't together.

It had left behind a lasting scar that made John Watson afraid of losing his daughter.

She smiles.

The music plays on in her mind until a knock at the door lets it disperse.

When she stands and looks at the mantel, Janey realizes it is already two o'clock in the afternoon.

The postman maybe?

Getting to her feet, she notices with distaste she is still in a nightgown. She throws on a winter coat to ward of the England chill as she stand on tiptoe, peers in the peep hole and frowns.

Nothing greets her but a brown paper package lying on the front step.

After a moment, she steps outside, crouching to pick up the box. She reads that there's no return address-

and then everything happens fast.

Hands grab her before she can even breathe let alone scream, pressing the cool cloth to her mouth. She kicks instinctively, reaching as the person drives her to her knees, dragging her back inside her house. Her nails claw the floor, leaving long scratch marks as the stranger she can't see slams the door shut. She can't breathe.

She won't.

She refuses because she knows what will happen.

Her mind burns as viciously she aims an upper cut at the man's head and hits home, once.

Then she gasps, breathes in the chemicals, and slowly everything goes dark.

here...


End file.
